O wha’s the bride that cairries the bunch
O’ thistles blinterin’ white?
Her cuckold bridegroom little dreids
What he sail ken this nicht.

For closer than gudeman can come
And closer to’r than hersel’,
Wha didna need her maidenheid
Has wrocht his purpose fell.

O wha’s been here afore me, lass,
And hoo did he get in?
—A man that deed or I was born
   This evil thing has din.

And left, as it were on a corpse,
Your maidenheid to me?
 —Nae lass, gudeman, sin’ Time began
   ’S hed ony mair to gi’e.

   But I can gi’e ye kindness, lad,
   And a pair o’ willin’ hands,
   And you sall ha’e my briests like stars,
   My limbs like willow wands,

   And on my lips ye’ll heed nae mair,
   And in my hair forget,
   The seed o’ a’ the men that in
   My virgin womb ha’e met….

 

from A Drunk Man Looks at Throbbing Thistle